How I Gave the Dream Away
by w0man-1n-r3d
Summary: When the time comes, pray you do not give the dream away unknowingly. This is the story of one who knows the truth. (Finished)


How I Gave the Dream Away

~aka~

Joe's Memoirs

by: "ladydeakin"

Disclaimer: The wonderful world of the Matrix is property of its' respective copyright holders. 

A/N: Another short, inspired by the Matrix comics. They're very insightful and found for free on the Matrix website. Some smashing artwork, and for all you Agent fans out there, Agent Brown makes a cameo in one of them! 

Rain. It leaks through the cracks in the blue awning of the station platform at Ealing Broadway. It soaks the newly laid brickwork, running in rivulets through the mortar, pooling in the grey drain that runs down the middle of platforms 3 and 4 and ends right where my home begins. My home being this piece of cardboard that sits at the bottom of a blue concrete pillar. 

I hate it when it rains. It makes the punters nasty, more hostile than they normally are. With their wide-brimmed black umbrellas that they spend time sharpening the points on to jab their fellow man out of the way to get the last seat on the Central line, their black trench coats, matching black briefcases and black shoes that go tappety-tap on the brick as they pass me without a second glance. I learned a long time ago not to bother asking, "Spare any change, please?" as they go by; they never do. Only the newbies ask. 

Although I love my home. The station is the keystone of civilization, where the well, the rash, the old and the upwardly mobile gather together in that ritual that is commuting to work, travelling home at the end of the day, going to see wives, husbands, girlfriends, boyfriends, lovers or as I used to, going home to my computer. Yes, I used to be just like you, over there, pissed off because you just missed your train, with a permanent scowl and an MP3 player tucked neatly away in your pocket next to your polyphonic video camera mobile phone/PDA, the essentials of this modern urban lifestyle we live in. Our forbearers needed spears and fire. All we need is a full battery indicator on our LCD screens.

I have fallen out, dropped out, burnt out, ceased to be, unaccounted for, inconsiderable human waste, the burnt bit of crust on the pie of humanity; the dregs in the bottom of the beer barrel that gets chucked out of the pub to await the brewery to pick it up and recycle it. They don't care what happens to me, and neither do those in charge. All they care about is they get their full investment from my existence before I expire. I know it. They know it. And that's why I'm here. They think I'm harmless. They're right; I am. No one listens to a crazy old/young homeless guy with a beard you could lose a badger in, and a half-empty bottle of Safeway's Gin next to the Burger King bag I use to store the chips that fall from the chip-cart on the station platform that make up my dinner. Those are my urban essentials. Those are my tools for modern living.

Yes, just like you there. Elbowing your way on to the train. You are going to work today, to your 'day' job. I bet you work in IT, you've got the demeanour, the stature, and the arrogance of a disgruntled computer tech. Perhaps you're a network admin, perhaps you're a SYSOP. You could even be a coder, a graphic designer, or just a lowly techie. As the doors of the Central line close, someone steps on your foot. I can read your lips, I see what you called him. The crowd ignores you; they think what you said but are too polite to say it. But you feel it within you, a Messianic complex. You feel it, that you control these people. You provide them with a service. They owe you because you control the machines that they need to do their jobs, to get promoted, to move through their lives on their chosen career paths. 

They owe you. Because you live it. During your days you control them, but at night you seek out what is controlling you, what you feel, what you can sense all around you. The fallacy. The great myth. The façade that is our reality. The reason I don't care to participate in your society anymore, madam. The truth that makes the Jaguar parked at home in your driveway meaningless, that makes those little decisions you make on the way to work while you balance a Starbucks' latte in one hand and your mobile in the other irrelevant, Sir. I am above, or below the status quo. And so are you, but you just haven't been given that choice yet, have you, Mr. IT demigod? 

But you know it's out there. Just as I once did. And you go looking for it every night, after camping out in the pubs getting paralytic, anaesthetizing yourself from the dream with every sip of the amber lager you drink. You see it written on the insides of tube tunnels in the graffiti, it's in your face every payday, in every drop of Stella Artois that goes past your lips, in the ashes that fall from every cigarette you smoke. Yes, you know his name by now don't you? You've heard of him just as I have. And you're looking for him. You want to know the truth, but if you did you wouldn't be able to take it. If you did, you'd end up just like me, that is, if you weren't deemed acceptable, as I wasn't, and that's why I'm here now. 

I discovered him while I was doing my nightly 'research'. During the day I held a job, like you. Perhaps you are my replacement at that 'Big Brother' globalized software company that has its' posh little Ikea-kitted modern offices on Brewer Street in Soho. After work, I'd meet up with my mates at the Glasshouse, or Waxy's or Callaghans and we'd down a jar or five. Then I'd stumble home, back here to Ealing, back to my computer where a six pack of Stella would see me through the nights' hacking. What did I hack? Anything establishment. My own company, mostly. Soft target, as I knew how to get in. And they were the most prized. The name I once had for myself was made through hitting my own soft targets and not through any special skill. Perhaps that's why I was unacceptable. Why hack a password if you have the tools to create one for yourself?

The rumour was the boss was working on a special project with them. You know who the boss is? The American zillionaire geek? The one who stole his ideas from everyone else, called them his own, and sorted out copyrights in court? That's him. And he was working for them. He was helping them create their programmes. There were whispers among the directors that our "top secret" teams weren't just working on the latest version of their crappy yet ever-so popular operating system, they were working on something bigger. Something for a power higher than the American government. What could be higher then the American government, I asked myself at the time. God? Satan? Aliens? We all were thinking it, but not saying it. Come to think of it, when Fleming disappeared, I wonder if he was digging around as well. 

It was O'Neill who came to me. He told me, off the record and confidentially, of course, to look into this. Whatever it was, it could either make or break the shareholders when it went global and it was important that he knew. The boss was keeping it so closed lip, and the team members were untouchable. No one knew what was going on in this camp. 

I went along with him for my own reasons. If I found out what it was, rival companies, especially the one whose logo is a fruit, would pay big money for a tip-off. And that would see me sitting easy. That would see me on the housing ladder for the first time in my life. That would be the answer.

It was the question that I was unprepared for. After many weeks digging, I was able to gain access to the boss's system when he complained about networking problems he was having when trying to connect from London, England to the home system in Redmond, Washington, USA. When I went to fix them, I examined his files and found a few documents that looked interesting, of which I took copies on a floppy disk when he was called out of the office. I discovered they were working on Project Great Divide. The document explained what Project Great Divide is. I can still see the screen in front of my eyes as I read it.

_Project Great Divide is a top-secret collaboration between the chosen technical representatives and employers of the Matrix energy supply and Zero-One (Source) to create an interface of which certain parts of the energy supply can be harnessed for their independent and creative cerebral and technological abilities to work for the advancement of the Source and its' interests within the Matrix and the outside world. Project Great Divide acknowledges that the energy supply possess the ability to conceptualize and free-think that the Source does not, and it wishes to incorporate those with these skills within itself so that it may evolve and improve its' current sentience._

The questions came to me. What the hell is Zero-One (Source)? What is the energy supply? And most of all, what the fuck is the Matrix? 

I showed O'Neill the document. He grew pale. He patted me on the back and mumbled, "Nice one," before walking away. I sat there at my little Ikea "Kökröt" desk and something inside of me, some kind of sixth sense or whatever the fuck told me that my days were numbered here at Metacortex. 

As I started going through my support requests a hand descended upon my shoulder. It was him. It was the boss.

"Come with me," the little nerd said. Looking at him with his bottle-cap glasses, bowl haircut that on a 40 year old seemed insane, I could whip this dorks' arse from here to bloody Croydon and back. And he was the zillionaire, richest man in the world. I guess in the battle between brawn and brains, brains will inevitably win in the end. 

  
The boss led me into a stark white office. There was a single flat-screen TV on the far wall. He dimmed the lights and turned it on with a single push of the remote.

"Joe, it has come to my attention that you stumbled upon a piece of classified information while you were fixing my computer. I am sure you have a lot of questions."

I stared at the screen, the black and white patterns of noise and distortion flickering quickly over the panel. It was hypnotic if you stared at it long enough. 

"What you have seen is so classified that you have only left us with a few options. We can kill you, or we can tell you the truth. We prefer to tell you the truth."

"What is the truth, sir?" I asked him.

He pushed a button on the remote. The black and white noise slowly turned to 1's and 0's that were green and scrolling. They flickered and then they froze on the panel. 

"The world as you know it is a virtual reality simulation that was created to harness humans as an energy source."

Shots of myself sitting in the bathtub, reading the back of a Pantene bottle of shampoo, looking for porn on the internet, scratching my naked arse as I stood in the kitchen making a cup of tea flashed over the screen.

"How the fuck did you get this? Who's put cameras in my house?" I pushed back from the table and stood up, hollering at him as he stood calmly against the wall, watching the screen.

Motioning towards the remote with the screen, he continued. The screen showed a few steel girders sticking up through water. It was a post-apocalyptic sight to behold, as static lightning cracked through the black sky. A horrid looking thing resembling a squid with red eyes flitted past. I realised my jaw was hanging open in disbelief.

"This is London as you know it. There was a war. Man verses Machine. Machines won. They created the Matrix to harness man for his electricity to power them, and to give man a purpose and a place to live. If they had not done so, we would all be dead. We owe the machines our servitude and our compliance."

The TV screen showed a pink pod full of goo. The camera zoomed in on the top, and through all the wires going in and around it, I could make out there was a body in it. Looking at the face, it was my own.

"I don't believe you," I cried. "No fucking way. Fucking yanks, you lot think you can control the world!" I shouted at him. "Fucking little dork!"

He aimed the remote at me and pushed a button. All of a sudden everything, the remote, the TV, the table, the walls, were covered with green code swirling down them. I held out my hands in front of me and they had green code over them. Looking over at him, for some reason, his code was yellow.

"We have been working with the machines to perfect the visual output control elements of the Matrix for many years. My corporation has a close working relationship with the Source."

He pushed another button on the remote and everything went back to normal. I felt faint. I reached for the back of the chair and held on to it for support.

"Do not fuck with me, Joe. Now you know the truth, you can either work with me here as a part of my top secret team, choose to leave us, in which case your existence will be erased and you will cease to exist, or you will try to tell someone like the authorities or the news, in which case you will be killed."

An overwhelming urge to vomit took over me, sticking in my throat, choking me. I lunged for the nearest bin and emptied my lunch into it. I did not need to ask for verification; this man did not have a sense of humour. This was not a joke; I knew it was true. 

A few nights prior I had first read about Morpheus as I sat at my computer. Hacker, terrorist, criminal, genius. I couldn't find out enough about him, and I was still running searches and gathering information on him during the day as I went to work, only to be bombarded at night when I got home through stuff I had already seen. 

He placed his hand on my neck as I kneeled there over the rubbish bin. "What's it to be?" he asked in his whiny nasal American accent.

I could not think, I would not think, all I knew is that I wanted to sleep and never wake up. I was drowning in my own vomit, breathing air that felt heavy and leaden in my lungs. "Let me… let me go," I said.

"Fine, if that's your choice." I could feel the remote pointed at my head, like it was the barrel of a gun. And then I was outside of the building, looking up at the four story glass front, the busy people on the busy pavement pushing around me like I wasn't there. 

Slowly, I turned to face the crowd. I let them push me down Brewer Street, past the Glasshouse pub, past the Midas Arms, past Callaghans' and down into the tube station at Piccadilly Circus. 

I withdrew my Travelcard and put it though the gate, and it wouldn't go. "Seek Assistance" it read. I motioned for the station assistant to come over and he looked at it. 

"It's expired, mate," he said. I looked at the ticket. I had renewed it a week ago and it was good for the month. But there the expiration date was, for yesterday.

"Explain how I got in to town today, using it?" I asked, smartly. He shrugged and walked off. The man behind me shouted, "Move out of the fucking way, will ya?"

I pushed through the angry queue and made my way to a ticket machine. The station stank of piss and decay. I reached in my back pocket for my wallet only to realise it was gone. I had no money. No wallet, no ID, no money, and no travelcard. 

It was real. The Matrix was real.

I looked down at my Ben Sherman shoes. Would they last the journey home? I started walking. I decided to walk to Paddington and get a train to Ealing Broadway there. The station did not have a barrier, so I could attempt to get away without having a ticket. I shuffled through the crowd of people, faces looking the same, the smell of petrol fumes, decay, dirt, grime, piss and shit, sweat and body odour filled my nostrils. I walked until my feet hurt and my stomach ached, and I continued to walk through the sexual depravity that was Soho, to the green of Hyde Park, and through the park past the Serpentine and waterfowl to the upscale neighbourhoods of Marble Arch and into Paddington, Brunel's Terminus. 

None of it was real. None of it existed. Except in dreams. Except in our minds.

Hitching a ride on an empty train, I held my breath the whole 10 minute journey to Ealing. My feet ached and my head hurt but at least I was sat down. 

We pulled into Ealing Broadway station and I panicked. The station had barriers and I had no ticket. But it wasn't real, so what did it matter? So I ran. I jumped the gates and with three revenue protection inspectors on my tail I ran, although my feet throbbed with every step on the pavement. I ran through Haven Green, and down onto Uxbridge Road. I ran through the late afternoon traffic as dusk descended upon the town, and I was almost hit by a 207 bus. But still I ran. I ran until I felt the gravel under my feet and found myself outside of my house. I tried to put the key in the lock but found it wouldn't fit. I had long since outrun the inspectors. I examined the lock. It had been changed. It was not the same lock that was there this morning. 

I sat on the steps and waited for my next door neighbour to get home. Two hours later she came trudging along, carrying a bag from Marks and Spencer. She paused when she saw me.

"Who are you?" she asked.

"It's me, Mrs. Delaney. Joe from number 3. Can you let me in?"

"I've never seen you before in my life! This isn't public property, get out!"

"Mrs. Delaney! It's me, Joe!" I exclaimed. I got off of the step and walked towards her. "Please…" I was starting to sob, "Please can you help?"

"What do I look like, bloody Care in the Community? Get out of my way!"

She brushed past me as quick as she could, and opened the door. She slammed it behind her forcefully.

This is what it was like to be homeless. This is what it was like not to exist.

I walked into Walpole Park. There was a homeless man sitting on a bench. He looked up when he saw me and a wide, toothless grin spread over his face. He handed me a bottle of cheap whiskey and a 5 pound note.

"Here, you need this more than I do," he said, laughing to himself as he weaved off down towards the duck pond.

I looked at the tattered bill in my hand. I had to use it for something important. £3.00 bought 3 hours worth of internet time at Cyberia. And £2.00 bought a prawn and mayonnaise sandwich. 

I searched everywhere I could remember for +"Morpheus" +"Matrix". I found dozens of websites with the question, 'What is the Matrix?' on them. Speculation, theories, delusions, none of it close to what the boss had shown me earlier today.

And then the screen went black. A green cursor scrolled to the centre and started typing.

_"Joe. We cannot help you. You are not suitable for the real world. Unknowingly you gave the dream away and we are sorry. Your search is meaningless. Try to adjust."_

And with that, the entire internet café's computers crashed. As did my last hope.

That was two years ago. I have gotten used to never being clean, warm or sober. I have adjusted to hunger, and I laugh at you who scuttle along to work, thinking you and your lives are so damn important when the reality is that you are just a battery. No one will remember you when you're gone. No one cares what you do or what you think you're trying to achieve. You, and your delusions of being special, being someone, are as pitiful as what you think my existence is. But there's a difference. I know when I'm being used. 

Tonight, I closed my eyes to the rattle of the District line clattering in on its' last run of the day over on platform 7. The station lights dimmed and all became quiet as the cold enveloped me in it's dark caress. And then I heard it. The payphone at the end of the platform started ringing. I opened my eyes at the intrusion, and took a drink of half-frozen gin. 

At first it looked like a giant black bird, the way its wings' flapped as it fell. The platform seemed to cave in, as if it was made of liquid as it landed and then snapped back up to normal. When it started running, I then realised it was a human wearing a long black coat. 

There was an almighty bang behind me and as I turned I saw another man fall to the platform from the BBC skyscraper above the station. As soon as he landed, he started shooting at the man who was running for the phone. 

The man in the long black coat got to the phone and in a blink of an eye he was gone, vanished, as if into air. A bullet from the suited mans' gun smashed through the receiver, shattering it.

I couldn't help myself. If you could ask me now, I don't know what possessed me to run at the suited man, fling myself upon him and scream, "You're a part of it! You're one of them! You're one of them aren't you?"

I could see the disgust on his face; disgust I was familiar with, having seen it on a daily basis since I moved into the station. And I could feel the tingle from the bullet that smashed through my guts which was the first bit of warmth I felt in six months, even before I heard it. I tasted blood in my mouth and I could smell diesel and piss as I slumped to the ground, the piss probably my own.

And the last thing I could hear was the man saying, "Another dead battery. What a pity. Never mind."


End file.
